The Assassin in the Wastebasket
by SJ.Endeavor
Summary: What do you get when you cross an overactive imagination with old childhood movies and new video games? Why, THIS, my good fellows! Features an eight inch tall Altair running around in a world of "giants."
1. Prelude

The Assassin In The Wastebasket

This Assassin's Creed crack-fiction is an S.J. Endeavor

* * *

Prelude:

"Down The Rabbit Hole…"

* * *

At first I thought it was my imagination. 

I went though the usual stream of various denials: I was dreaming. Hallucinating. My best friend and pseudo-reformed stoner had slipped me LSD. Again.

I tried the usual slew of remedies: I pinched myself. Checked all the meds in the house to see if a side effect could make me 'experience wild delusions. ' Called my best bud and chewed them out for doping me up for the third time that month.

None of those things worked, of course. It was real. All of it. It was really happening. Or, at least, my head thought it was.

But who knows? Maybe I was went temporarily mental. My elevator stopped going to the top floor for a few weeks. The light bulb that was my brain mysteriously dimmed a couple watts. Whatever. The point of the matter was that some pretty weird shit was happening to me, and the ten-inch man running around my room only served to drive home the point that I was either A) crazy, or B) actually getting to see something genuinely supernatural.

But, again, maybe I imagined the incident. Maybe I really did go hopping mad. Maybe my stoner buddy slipped me a cocktail of substances not meant to be mixed. I really don't care. All that matters is that once everything was said and done, I had a scar on my hand the size of Wisconsin and a missing action figure, plus three A+ history exams and a really freaked out pet ferret.

But I'll save a recounting of that little incident for later.

On the following pages, you will find an account of what happened to me over the past few weeks, beginning with the kids I baby sit being mischievous (as usual) and their dad being a wood-shop-a-holic handy man who's seen _way_ too many children's films. From it, you can judge exactly what I am: a delusional video game fan, someone worthy of a straightjacket, or a person who had a miraculous (if not annoying) occurrence happen in their life.

And now, without further ado, follow me down the rabbit hole… take care, and be sure to watch your step.

* * *

AUTHOR'S LAMENT

My little bro and I were cleaning out an old armoire this past winter break, and stumbled across some video cassettes of ours from our distant childhood. Guess which one we found?

The Indian in the Cupboard.

Naturally, since I had just gotten my Altaïr figurine, this combination of that movie, my figure, and my favorite game combined to make this:

The Assassin In the Wastebasket.

A mix of elements of all three items, churned together in a blender of doom and all things crazy. With maniacal glee I write this fic, and with deviousness unparalleled by any on our earth I have constructed a (weird) story.

Let it be known now that this is a CRACK FIC. Totally not serious. Completely farcical. The plot is minimal, and mostly humorous (or attempted humor, at the very least). Don't get mad that it's not perfectly canon or an epic masterpiece fit for publication; just enjoy the lameness of the puns and the weirdness of the characters and the situations they get themselves into. This is not a "get sucked into a videogame" fic or any of its derivations; it's a new spin on one of my old favorite movies I am writing purely for the pleasure of.

I hope you can enjoy it too.


	2. Chapter 01: Jericho Miniatures

Chapter 01:

"Jericho Miniatures"

* * *

My name is Alice McGee, and there are three things in this world I hate more than anything else.

The first is forks. The second is my history class. The third, and last, is that lame-ass old movie called "The Indian in the Cupboard."

That last one is especially ironic.

David and Ralph, the two twin boys I baby sit every day for two hours after school, Mondays through Thursdays, insisted on watching it every afternoon. Their father, Matthew Thompson, had bought it for them two weeks earlier at a garage sale. The videotape had been covered with dust the first time I shoved it into the VCR, but now the black plastic is shiny and spot-free from all the use. The boys had watched it at least once everyday since getting a hold of it, played cowboys and Indians when not in front of the television set, and incessantly whined to their mother about getting a cupboard just like the one in the film.

Frankly, the movie was driving me nuts. I didn't think I could stand another day of it.

"I don't wanna go," I moaned to my best friend, Dinah, over cups of coffee and muffins. The little café we had hit up in the mall after school was near deserted, so I talked as loud as I wanted. "Those little brats'll make me watch it _again_…"

"How many times is that?" Dinah asked, leaning forward over the tabletop. "Like, ninety?"

Just for the record, Dinah is something of a case. She talks like a 'valley girl,' dresses like a 'scenester,' and has the tendency to consume illegal substances with the frequency of a hardcore hippy. She's the type that shoots for nonconformity, but only succeeds in looking exactly like all of her friends. Personally, beads and headscarves just aren't my thing. I go for the casual look: jeans, t-shirts, sneakers. Though close socially, she and I differ to the point I don't really tell her anything personal because I know her response will be something along the lines of: "Don't worry about it. Let's go to a party; you'll forget everything, I promise." Then she'd shove something illegal at me and call it a night. That being said, let it be known now that in way of close friends, I have few. Casual ones, I got tons, but none that are close enough to confide in. Dinah's the nearest to that, and even she's miles away from me.

"More like the hundredth," I muttered, and ran a hand over my face.

"Skip," Dinah suggested demurely, as if she were merely commenting on the weather. She took a slow, savoring sip of her latte.

I shook my head. "They pay me in advance. I can't cop out or I'll have to make up time." I shuddered theatrically. "Maybe on the weekend. Now _that_ I wouldn't be able to stand!"

Dinah shrugged. "I guess."

My shoulders sagged as I took a sip of my drink. It turned out too bitter, so I set it down again and picked up a muffin. A bite revealed it to be blueberry. "Tell me about it." Dinah and I ate the rest of the muffins in silence, until my phone's alarm rang. "I gotta hit the road," I said, then fished out my wallet and dropped a ten dollar bill on the table. "Reporting to duty."

Dinah just waved a hand at me as she got out a pocket mirror and began to fix the polka dot scarf she'd tied over her curly brown hair. "'Kay," she said, not looking at me. "Call me later, I guess."

"Sure."

"Bye, Alice."

"See you, Dinah."

I walked out of the café. Well, more like trudged. My spirits were heavy. I did not want to have to sit through babysitting again! As I marched down the mall's crowded causeway, I muttered obscenities to myself concerning the unfairness of it all, and only succeeded in making myself feel worse. Suddenly, however, my cell phone screamed, scaring me out of my skin.

Now, I know that sounds weird (a cell phone can scream?), but here's the thing about my phone: because I am a dramatic person, I like to have dramatic ring tones. I'm a total theater geek. So one day while perusing the downloads section of my mobile, I found a ring tone called "Shriek." Basically, it's a long, drawn-out, blood-curdling scream that's horror-movie-rific. Frankly, I love it, despite the fact I get weird looks from passerby whenever it goes off.

And I did indeed get some funny ones as my phone began to screech like a dying banshee. Hurriedly, so as not to agitate bystanders further, I yanked it out of my pocket and answered the call. It was Dinah.

"Hey," she said. "I forgot to mention that I went by that shop you like in the mall's west wing. What's it called again? Comma-Carrie's? Kartmasutra's?"

"Kamikaze's," I supplied, and started to walk. Kamikaze's was an anime store that sold video games, manga, and other stuff of the like. I went there so often the manager, Sterling, knew me on sight and by name. And, given the amount of times I'd dragged Dinah there, he knew her, too. Dinah didn't like the store much, and made it a point to 'forget' the name every time it came up in conversation. However, she never declined a chance to accompany me there, leading me to believe she actually found something likeable about the store… but what?

"Yeah, that's the one," Dinah said. "Anyway, I saw the guy that usually works there—Sterling, right?—and he told me to tell you that he got your order in."

Abruptly I stopped walking, turned around, and began to power walk in the other direction. I had been walking east, towards my car, and now was heading west towards Kamikaze's. "Did he, now?"

"Said it was a hundred and sixty bucks, with tax."

I frowned. "The price got raised. Weird.

"Speaking of which, what did you buy? It's not like you to spend so much, Scrooge."

I redirected her attention, not wanting to discuss it. Indeed, I was a frugal person, and hated to spend money—especially when I worked so hard for it. "Dinah, why did you go down to Kamikaze's? I thought you didn't like that store, and it wasn't on the way to the café..."

I could practically feel her blushing from across the connection, and grinned. "No reason," Dinah stuttered. "Just thought I'd drop in."

It dawned one me, and I sniggered. "And say hi to Sterling? He's just that cute, huh?"

"Uh… Oh, look my ride's here! I have to go!"

My grin widened. "I'll tell him you say 'hi,' okay?"

Dinah started to blurt something (probably a denial, knowing her), but I hung up before she could. Cackling with maniacal glee, I all but ran to Kamikaze's.

The shop was musty inside, as always, but colorful. Stacks and stacks of manga and comic books towered high, almost to the ceiling, and shelves of even more merchandise clogged the corners. The entertainment section of the store —filled with an eclectic array of DVD's, CD's, and video games—was located on the back wall, and was the only place with some semblance of organization.

Sterling was behind the front counter, as usual, perched on a tall stool. He was reading something, and his horn rimmed glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose. Dark hair, pulled into a low ponytail, spilled over one of his shoulders, and there was an ink stain on his cheek, just beneath his left eye. He looked up when I entered, and his brown eyes flashed a smile just as the ring in his eyebrow glittered.

"Yo," I said cheerfully. "Dinah says you have something for me. Is that true or did she send me on a wild goose chase again?"

Sterling's smile grew. "She _would _do that, wouldn't she? Lucky for you, the hippy spoke true." His voice was a surprisingly deep bass, even though his frame was slim. Sterling was built like a whip: long and lean, yet strong, with classic features and a penchant for dark clothing and piercings. He put aside his comic book—a copy of a Batman comic in a plastic cover; it looked vintage, and old—and drew a parcel covered in brown paper out from under the counter. "Here you are."

I inhaled sharply, positively beaming, and ran to the counter.

Sterling watched me tear off the paper, still smiling. He leaned forward across the counter, chin propped on a hand. "You owe me $174.65."

The paper fell of the case inside, revealing a wooden box about a foot long and eight inches wide. It was carved in flowing lines and whorls, and inlaid in silver on the lid was a symbol that looked either like an 'A' without the crosspiece, or a triangle with a rounded lower edge.

"He even made a box for it!" I crowed. "Wow!"

"That's why the price got jacked up," Sterling said, tapping the box with a finger. "He made it at the last minute."

I nodded. "Oh." I stared down at the box, taking in the color of the wood and the silver of the Assassin's symbol. I noticed there was a set of hinges on the box's left side, so it would open like a book if I were to lay it on the table when I at last unclasped it. My fingers, eager to see the box's contents, quested for the latch on the right side, and were met by cool metal that would not grant me entry, no matter how hard I pulled at it.

"Hey!" I said. "It won't open!"

Sterling leaned his head close to the counter and peered at the side of the box. "There's a key hole," he said. "It's probably locked."

"No shit." I bent and picked the paper up off the floor; a rough envelope fell from the torn remains. Luckily, I hadn't damaged it in my frenzy to open the package. The packet felt heavy when I picked it up, and when I tore it open a heavy silver key fell out. "Cool," I said, and fitted it to the lock.

I could hear tumblers turning when I turned the key, and then the box popped open slightly. Sterling and I both bent over the case as I lifted the lid, and we gasped in unison when we saw its contents.

"Oh, wow!" Sterling said in wonder. I, personally, was speechless.

Inside the box was a nearly flawless eight-inch rendering of Altaïr, the lead character from a video game called Assassin's Creed. The box had been lined with red velvet, and there was a depression where the little man fit almost perfectly. To his left and right were tiny throwing knives set in their own depressions, delivered in stunning miniature detail, plus a sword and a short sword that looked wickedly sharp despite their size. Their empty scabbards were strapped to Altair, and were empty. The buckles on the tiny man's outfit were metal, and the cloth real cloth instead of flexible rubber. His leather gauntlets, boots, and braces all looked real and workable, and the metal on his forearm guard was engraved with stunning clarity and accuracy. Even the pouches worn low on Altaïr's hips looked useable.

"Oh, wow," Sterling repeated. "Where did you _find_ this guy, Alice?"

I thought back on it. Two months earlier, I had attempted to order a figurine of Altaïr online. None, however, took my fancy, so with further research I had found a website with the title of "Miniatures by Jericho."

The premise was simple enough: a man, named Eric Jericho, made figurines of anything you cared to request. For a price, he would spend time and effort to make you a stunningly real miniature of your choice (size determining price). However, he would not take on just anyone. He had to like the character of your choosing, for one, but, most of all, he had to like _you. _After seeing his works on his page, I knew he was the only one who could make me the figurine I wanted; none of the mass produced ones were of a good quality, and I craved something unique. So I wrote him an email explaining just how obsessed I was with Assassin's Creed, and with the character Altaïr. A week later I received a message informing me that my order had been placed, and the figure was in the works. After a brief chat, Jericho asked for a shipping address, and since my parents would likely not approve of me spending money on such a toy, I asked Sterling if I could send it to Kamikaze. He had acquiesced, even agreed to use his credit card to pay as long as I paid him back in cash (Jericho wouldn't accept cash, oddly enough, but allowed me to get Sterling involved), and now…

I lifted Altaïr from the box and held him lightly in my hands. With hesitance born of an awed hush, I stroked the pads of my fingers over his tiny hand, marveling at the way his 'skin' felt. I had no idea what material Jericho had used to make it, but I realized it was wonderfully realistic as I touched his palm and…

"Ouch!" I cried, nearly dropping Altaïr. My finger, the one I had touched his hand with, was bleeding at the tip.

"I'll get a Band-Aid," Sterling said quickly, diving beneath the counter. "What happened?"

I turned Altaïr over and stared. I'd cut myself on his hidden blade. Sterling resurfaced from the depths of the desk's underbelly, and as he put the bandage on my finger I told him. "Hidden blade. It got me."

Sterling whistled and crumpled up the Band-Aid wrapper. "So he's got one of those too, eh?"

I nodded. "Seems so." Carefully, I put the figure back in his box and closed the lid, at the last second remembering to slip Jericho's letter into the box with Altaïr. I'd read it later, after babysitting the twins…

Babysitting… twins…

Oh, crap!

"Shit!" I shrieked, looking at my watch. I frantically pulled out my wallet and slapped some money on the counter."That's all I've got right now since I didn't know it was here—I'll pay you the rest later!" I grabbed the box off the counter, and as I bolted out of the store Sterling lurched to his feet. 

"Wait!" he called. "Where are you going?"

"I'm late for work!" I yelled over my shoulder. "Call me about the money later!" He and I had long since exchanged numbers.

"Uh… okay! But Alice—"

I didn't wait to hear the rest. Despite the fact sprinting wasn't allowed in the mall, I ran to my car as fast as my legs would carry me, then sped off to the twin's house.

* * *

* * *

AUTHOR'S (albeit short) RANT:

Characters: EXTABLISHED! Plot: MINIMAL! Fun: PLENTY!

With this chapter I established that Alice has a figurine of Altaïr she got from a man named Jericho. Weird shit starts happening later on. You've been warned, you bastards.

I hope the lot of you enjoyed this, you ungrateful pieces of shite. Sorry, I don't mean that, I just feel like being mean. Grr. And angry. Yar! For no reason, to boot. Weird, huh? Anyway, drop me a line and tell me if you like it at all. Cheers!


	3. Chapter 02 & The Author's Burger of DOOM

The Assassin in the Wastebasket

Chapter 02

In my defense, I was only five minutes late for work and it was the first tardy of my babysitting career. Still, despite the fact I had been a model employee up until that point, the twin's father, Matthew Thompson, was looking quite frazzled by the time he answered the front door.

"Oh, Alice," he sighed. He had paint smeared across the bridge of his nose and a leaf stuck in his thick brown hair. Mr. Thompson was in his late thirties or early forties, but was very young looking. His hair was thick (not a gray strand to be found) and his skin was hardly wrinkled at all. "Thank God you're here. I can't keep up with them."

I winced. "So it's one of _those _days, huh?" The boys' behavior alternated between compliant and devilish with uncanny irregularity, and it was easy to tell the day's mood by Mr. Thompson's face.

"I'm afraid so," he sighed—Mr. Thompson was a chronic sigher. "They're out back, swimming. I thought they'd work off energy that way, but they've been at it for an hour and…" Just then, there came the sound of a shriek and a splash from the back yard. My head began to ache. "Well, you get the idea," Mr. Thompson said sheepishly as he led me inside the house. "Nothing slows those two down."

The house was a pretty two-story white colonial with a wrap-around porch and a huge back yard, made smaller by the presence of a pool. The twin's bedroom (they shared one) was upstairs, and Mr. Thompson slept in the room next to theirs (he'd moved up there after the boys tried to sneak out of the house and catch fireflies one night last summer). Mrs. Thompson had died due to birth complications, and her widowed husband worked from home. He was only needed at the office in the late afternoon.

"I'll be back by six," he said hurriedly as he led me to the backyard. "And I'll bring dinner home, so don't worry about feeding them."

"Uh-huh," I said, not really paying attention. Sunlight glinted off the back porch's windows, keeping me from seeing the pool and the twins beyond. I craned my head to see if I could get around the glare, but couldn't.

"Uh, Alice?"

My attention went back to Mr. Thompson. "Oh, uh… yes?"

"I said, before I go I have a surprise for the twins. You didn't seem to be listening."

I laughed. "Sorry. My mind wandered."

He nodded. "That's okay. Just help me get the boys." Then he opened the doorway, and we stepped out into the mid-afternoon sunshine.

The moment the door shut behind us, bolt sliding home with a click, two heads swiveled in our direction. One was blonde, the gold hair glimmering like a sopping crown over a pair of bright brown eyes. The other head had brown hair overshadowing blue eyes. The first was Ralph, and the second David.

"Miss Alice!" Ralph cried, climbing out of the pool. He would have hugged me if I hadn't stepped back and held up my hands to ward him off.

"Sorry, kiddo, but you're soaking wet. You can hug me when you get dry."

Ralph pouted cutely. "But I don't wanna get out of the pool…"

I smiled. "Too bad, then."

As we spoke, David slowly climbed out of the pool, then walked over to one of the deckchairs and began to towel off. When he was sufficiently dry, he put on a t-shirt, stepped past his brother, and wrapped his arms around my waist. "Hello, Miss Alice," he said mildly, stepping back. David had always been the more thoughtful of the twins. Personally, I thought his slow speech and quiet voice were a little bit creepy, but he was still cute in a hushed sort of way.

Mr. Thompson cleared his throat. "Boys," he said, "I have something for you."

Immediately the twins mobbed their dad. "What is it?" Ralph shrieked, tugging at his father's hand. Mr. Thompson didn't seem to mind that the little boy was dripping water all over him. "What did you get us?"

"Is there one for each of us?" David asked, more calmly (and less drippily) than his brother. Ever practical, he clarified: "Or will we have to share it?"

Mr. Thompson laughed. "Share, actually." When both his sons looked crestfallen (sharing was not, as you will come to see, one of their talents), he amended: "But sharing will be a good lesson for the both of you."

"But Da-ad—" they whined in what was very nearly perfect harmony. They somehow managed stretched the word 'dad' into two separate syllables.

Mr. Thompson looked at them sternly (for once). "Boys," he said, "It took me a long time to make your present, so don't complain about it. Maybe, if you're ungrateful, I won't give it to you at all."

The twins went quiet immediately, and I had to stifle a giggle. Deny them a surprise and they became angels, if only for a moment. "We're not ungrateful!" they cried plaintively. "Promise, we're not!"

Mr. Thompson smiled warmly, strict charade vanishing. "Oh, I suppose you're right." He patted the twins on the head. "Ralph, go dry off. David, show Miss Alice to the living room. I have to go down to the basement to get your present."

David nodded, and Ralph skipped off. Despite the fact I knew exactly where the living room was (and despite the fact both David, and his father knew it, too—they loved being gallant) David took me by the hand and led me inside. Ralph skipped in after us, newly dry and clothed. It did not take long for their father to return, carrying a box covered in a paint-stained cloth. He set the box down on the glass-topped coffee table gently, then straightened.

"Here you are, boys," he said with obvious pride. "Check it out."

_Like he really needed to invite them,_ I thought. The boys had already dived for the box and were in the process of uncovering it. _Look at 'em go; they're like piranha…_

By the time I had finished the thought, the twins had gotten it uncovered. I couldn't see what it was, however, because they crowded so close around it, 'ooh-ing' and 'ah-ing and screeching like dying cats.

"Daddy Daddy where did you get it!?" Ralph screamed, jumping up and down. Beside him, his brother was less vocal about his delight, though no less happy. He just smiled like the Cheshire cat and stared at the new toy in wonder.

"Look, Alice, look!" he said, grabbing my hand and tugging me towards his prize. "Look at our new Cupboard!"

I stopped dead at that, and I'm sure my face paled.

"Is that…" I swallowed. "Is that what I think it is?"

If my eyes were not deceiving me, the Indian's cupboard—that blasted box from the hellish piece of shit movie my charges found so damned entertaining—was sitting serenely on the coffee table.

"Yup," Mr. Thompson said with undue smugness. He had obviously not seen my face. "I spent two weeks on it."

Mr. Thompson was a seasoned wood carver. Carpenter. Whatever. He had duplicated the stupid box to the last detail: shape, size, color, everything! It was giving me a headache just looking at it.

My nightmares were now reality.

My headache—which had begun to pulse when I'd heard the boys screaming in the back yard—pounded in earnest, spreading from my temples, down my neck, and into my shoulders. It was the worst, however, right between my eyes. I put a hand to the bridge of my nose and pinched, hard. Great, a tension headache, I thought. Perfect…

"It's great," I said flatly, putting my hand down. "Really great."

Mr. Thompson, bless him, missed the sarcasm entirely. "You think so?" he gushed (Mr. Thompson was a good gusher; my theory was that he was making up for the gushing his late wife would have performed. At times, his femininity was disconcerting). "It took me hours and hours to get the grain just right, and the lock was the most difficult thing in the word to attach, and—"

I promptly stopped listening. Dread consumed me. No doubt the boys would want to watch the movie a dozen times now that they had their own personal relic to accompany the hellish motion picture…

"Well, I'd better be going," I heard Mr. Thompson say. With difficulty I gave him my full attention. He moved toward the door, and I followed. "Just keep them from burning down the house until I get back, okay?"

"Sure."

He took his coat from the coat closet, the one next to the front door. "You have a key, right?"

I held up my car keys. From them hung the key Mr. Thompson had given me the first time I ever babysat for his kids.

"Good girl. Lock up behind me."

"Uh-huh."

"Call if you need me!"

"I will. Take care!"

And with that, I shut the door behind him (perhaps with a little more force than necessary), then locked it. Not two seconds later there came a knock.

With a sigh I moved to the table next to the coat closet and plucked an object off its surface, then unlocked the front door.

Standing there was Mr. Thompson, looking utterly sheepish. "I forgot my—"

With a tired smile I held out his car keys.

He sighed in relief. "What would I do without you?"

I shrugged. "Get fired from work for recurrent tardiness?"

"Huh." He looked seriously contemplative for a minute, then shook it off. "Probably. Thanks, Alice. For keeping me in line, I mean." He smiled again, then walked off briskly, waving. "See you later."

"Uh-huh," I said, and locked the door for real.

* * *

* * *

AUTHOR'S BLAH-FEST!!!! (of doom and hickory smoked goodness)

EEK! Alice's life sucks! Next chapter things get… uh…_ interesting_, to say the least. Stay tuned.

So for any of you who don't check out my profile from time to time, I have a new food allergy! Shellfish, capers, nuts, artificial dyes, caffeine, and now… LACTOSE. Yes, I have been diagnosed with severe lactose intolerance. Maybe that explains my long standing and deep-seated hate for Italian foods and fired mozzarella sticks… damn cheeses. I only like cheese if it's on a burger… a hickory smoked one… with BACON.

Yes.

BACON.

Oh god. Hunger pains. HUNGER PAINS!

But I digress (from the beauty that is a hickory smoked burger with bacon and cheese and extra sauce… mmm… sauce). There's this restaurant near my house called "Princes" that has what are quite possibly the best hickory burgers (with bacon and cheese and extra sauce… mmm… sauce) on the planet. And when I say 'on the planet,' I mean 'in my area of the world.' But anyway, it's got a weird 'in-house' name like the "Texan Burger" or some such nonsense like that, which makes very little sense to me. Other states can like the beauty that is a hickory smoked burger with bacon and cheese and extra sauce… (mmm… sauce) just as much as Texans can! And I can most CERTAINLY enjoy such a burger of supreme deliciousness outside the state of Texas. Who couldn't?

But, alas, I am out of the time allotted to me to rant about the beauty that is a hickory smoked burger with bacon and cheese and extra sauce… (mmm… sauce), and must bid thee, my fair reader, Adieu.

Adieu!


	4. Chapter 03

The Assassin in the Wastebasket

Chapter 03

* * *

"But—!"

"No."

"Why—?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Hey—!"

"Nothin' doin'."

"But why _won't_ you put it on?" Ralph wailed, his construction paper Indian headdress he'd made in school flopping about as he waved it in my face. He was attempting to persuade me to wear it.

Keyword here: attempting.

"Because I'd look stupid. Why don't you make David wear it?"

David, looking characteristically melancholy in his vest and cowboy hat, raised an eyebrow.

"Because he's too _pale_!" Ralph moaned piteously. "Indians are _tan_! _You're_ tan! You should _wear_ it!"

I sniffed. It was true I was tan; I had been a lifeguard at the community pool last summer. Incidentally, I had met Ralph, David, and their father at the pool when David's leg cramped and I pulled him out of the deep end. I think Mr. Matthews was impressed with my handling of the situation, for as soon as I had pulled the sobbing child over the side of he pool he had asked: "Can I hire you? I'd pay you better than this place." Maybe he thought I was maternal or something. I don't know. I was just doing my job.

But I digress. Sighing, I relented and held out my hand. "Give it to me."

"Yay!" With unholy glee he bypassed my hand and jammed the paper-feathered crown over my hair. Then he scampered off and joined David around the coffee table as they played with their new toy.

What was the point of me wearing the dumb thing, anyway? I wondered. I mean, he just left me once he got his way. Brat.

Not wanting to risk offending the little horror, however, I made pains to make it sit right on my scalp. My plain brown hair—cropped chin length and jaggedly layered—didn't want to cooperate, and stuck up in all directions.

I gave up that battle fairly quickly. I never won when my hair was my adversary.

I sat there watching the kids for a few minutes, glad that my nightmare embodied (it looked so innocent sitting on the coffee table like it was, but I knew better) had the power to entertain them so well. Their toys—trucks and dinosaurs, cowboys and Indians, rockets and animals figurines—lay scattered across the living room like childhood-warfare debris. Looking at the windows, I saw that it was dark outside, and a glance at my watch revealed it to be almost eight o'clock. Earlier, I had given them their baths, then agreed to let them play until their father returned home at eight. Elated, for I didn't have much longer to wait, I sat down to watch them play with their stupid toys.

Not that I was any better. I had my Altaïr box sitting on my lap, and was idly stroking its cover as the boys played with the cupboard, inserting animal after animal and pretending that the ones who came out were alive. When I really thought about it, their imaginative enthusiasm was kind of charming, if not a little creepy…

"Miss Alice, what is that?"

I jumped: David had abandoned his brother and was staring intently at Altaïr's box.

"Yeah," agreed Ralph, coming to stand in front of me. Sitting on the couch as I was, I felt cornered. "What is that?"

"Just something I bought today," I said mildly. "Nothing, really."

"Can we see?" asked David.

I grimaced. "No, it's really nothing."

"But if it's nothing, then why can't we see it?" David was really too smart for his own good, and with reluctance I had to admit that he had a point. For an eight-year-old, he was incredibly astute.

I fought an internal battle, and the side of me that wanted to show off triumphed. Before I even realized what I was doing, I was fishing in my purse for my box's key. "It's kind of like an action figure," I explained. "Only it's not plastic, and it was_ really_ expensive, so don't drop it or anything." The key turned loudly in the lock, and my heart swelled with pride as Altaïr, in all his miniature glory, came into view.

The twins, as I expected, were on it in an instant, crowding so close I leaned backwards in my chair for some breathing room. Even the solemn David looked engaged. "Oh wow!" they gushed. "It's so cool!"

I saw what happened next as if in slow motion. Ralph's hand shot out, scooped up Altaïr, and then the boy was running across the room towards the cupboard.

"Hey!" I shouted, slinging aside the box before going after him. "I said no touching!" By then, however, it was too late—Ralph had successfully dumped out the cupboard's contents and had situated Altaïr inside. With preternatural quickness he had slammed the door, locked it, and beamed at his handiwork.

"Ralph!" I said, angry, and went to unlock my figurine. "I told you not to touch it!"

His answering look was reproachful, as was the hand that caught mine and stopped me from twisting the key. "Miss Alice, I know grownups sometimes have trouble seeing these things," he said with a child's sincere wisdom, "but he"(and by 'he' I assumed he meant 'Altaïr') "is very, very special. If anything will come to life for us, I know it will be him!"

That stopped me, fast. For a moment, my heart rate picked up; I wanted to open the cupboard and see if Altaïr was alive just as much as I didn't want to open it and see that he wasn't. It was an odd feeling—conflicted, yet bittersweet from anticipation.

All of a sudden I felt silly. No figurine could come to life. It was just a movie.

Right?

A call of "I'm home!" startled me out of my frozen posture. Mr. Thompson strode into the room, beaming, chattering away about how successfully his meeting had gone, and stopped just short of the living room doorway to stare blankly at the chaos. "Wow," he said. "They really had fun tonight, huh?"

I stood, grimacing at the action figures scattered about the room. "Yeah. I'll clean up."

"Sounds good. You do that while I put the little monsters to bed." With that said, the boys started whining about how they weren't sleepy, but that did not deter Mr. Thompson. He picked them up, one under each arm, and began to carry them up the stairs, each boy screaming in delight at being lifted so high.

I turned to the carnage of the living room, then began to clean. I sorted toys, straightened pillows, and pulled the carpet back into place as I heard Mr. Thompson fight to tuck in the twins and put out their lights. It got quiet as he, in the usual bed-time routine, read them a story.

As I cleaned in the story-induced silence, I realized that I had momentarily forgotten Altaïr.

I swore and dashed to the cupboard, put my hand on the key, and—stopped. For some reason, the apprehension I felt earlier had returned, and I immediately sensed the hairs on the nape of my neck rise to attention.

I shivered, walked to the couch, picked up Altair's box, and returned to the cupboard on the coffee table. I knew full well that it was only a cupboard the twin's dad had made in their basement, and that there was only an inanimate object locked inside. Nothing to be afraid of. However, I could not hide the fact that I was, inexplicably, afraid.

"Come on, Alice," I whispered, chiding myself. With effort, I placed my hand on the cupboard's bronze key and turned. "It's only a movie." Then I made to open the cupboard.

Fate had other plans, as Mr. Thompson chose that moment to come tromping down the stairs like a rogue elephant. "Well, I put them down, Alice," he said jovially. "Tomorrow, would you mind—what are you doing?"

It must have looked strange, my hand on the key of the cupboard, eyes wide in shock. To cover myself, I kept my eyes fixed firmly on Mr. Thompson's face as I opened the cupboard, felt around inside, found Altaïr, and all but threw him into his carrying case. "Nothing, Mr. Thompson," I said, locking Altaïr's cherrywood container. "The twins locked something of mine in the cupboard; I was just getting it back."

"Oh," he said, and began to prattle on about how he wanted me to run an errand for him the next day—for a price, of course. It didn't take long to work out the transaction's particulars, and with a sure of elation I realized that running the errand for him would nicely begin to replenish the money I had spent on my Altaïr figurine.

"Okay, sounds good," I said, pocketing the money Mr. Thompson gave me. It seemed he was having a nice dinner party two weeks from now, and needed me to get some rather expensive spices for him from a dealer downtown (Mr. Thompson was a great cook, and loved making foreign foods). Anytime during the next week would do.

"Cool," said Mr. Thompson, showing me to the front door. "Thanks for watching them again, Alice; you're a lifesaver."

I smiled. "No problem." Stepping into the humid night air, I tipped an imaginary hat at my employer. "See you tomorrow."

"Take care, Alice!" he said, waving as I jogged across his yard to the curb, where my beat up pickup truck waited for me. The drive home took less than five minutes, as the Thompson's and I lived about ten suburban blocks from one another. The moment I got in the front door and announced myself with a loud "I'm home!", my mother appeared out of the kitchen.

My mother is a pretty woman who gave in to the lure of sweets not to long after I, the only child, was born. Comfortably plump, she exudes contentment and smells strongly of cinnamon, as cinnamon rolls are her favorite treat.

"Hello, Alice," she said pleasantly. "How were the Twins?"

I sighed. "Loud, as always." Bending to kiss her rosy cheek (she was a good head shorter than me, as I took after my 6' 5 father), I asked: "Has anyone fed Vlad today?"

Mother shook her head. "No, but I could hear him rattling around in his cage all day. You'd best go see to him." In response, I made straight for the stairs leading up to my room, which is the only room on our modest home's second floor.

A breeze carrying the scent of roses drifted out of my room as I opened the door; I burned incense regularly, and rose was my favorite kind. My room itself, however, did not mirror my penchant for light, airy scents. The walls were black with midnight blue molding, and were covered with posters of all varieties, including one for Assassin's Creed. The room was shaped like a rectangle, the doorway situated on one of the long sides, but to the left of the middle. Dirty and unsorted laundry lay in a heap next to my desk, as did a towering pile of old magazines and a plain metal trashcan.

My desk lay directly across from the door, and, next to it, lay Vlad's cage. As I flipped on the light and set my bag and Altaïr's box down on the desk, the cage rattled as its sole occupant stirred, yawned, and pressed his nose into his paws.

"Good morning, sunshine," I said, walking over to him. My pet ferret lay sleepily on his tie-dye hammock, but as soon as I neared him he wriggled out and poked his nose eagerly at the cage's latch, wanting to play.

His cage sat on top of a mini-fridge, in which I kept his food and some cold drinks. I fed him his daily rations, cracked open a can of soda, and let Vlad out of his pen. He immediately climbed up my arm and curled about my neck like quivering fur stole.

"Hello, Vladimir," I cooed, scratching him behind the ears. "How are you today?" He unwound from around my throat and scampered down my arm and onto my desk, where he tried to attack Altaïr's box. Everything new that comes into my room has to be approved by Vlad—whose full name is Vladimir the Indecent, in an attempt to fuse the name of the badass inspiration for Dracula and the incident where Vlad ran up my mother's pant leg into one cool name—before I can be 'allowed' to keep it.

"Wanna see what's in the box, boy?" I asked in a sing-song voice. Vlad's black eyes, framed by a tiny black bandit's mask of fur that stood out darkly against his tawny fur, looked at me attentively, as if urging me onward. Fitting the key into the lock, I unclasped the latching mechanism and made to open the wooden casket.

Vlad, however, arched his back and hissed as soon as the lid opened the barest crack. Perplexed, I shut the case firmly, keeping my hand tight against the cover.

"What's gotten into you, boy?" I asked as he slowly backed away from the box. His spine had hunched up, fur bristling as he bared his tiny—but sharp—fangs. "It's only a dolly your mommy brought home from a nice man named Jericho. That's all it is." Sighing, I made to pick Vlad up. "You're a weird one, all right."

Vlad dodged my hands, scampered over to the box, and plucked the key out of the lock with his teeth.

"Vlad, no! Bad ferret!" He jumped off the desk, onto the swiveling office chair, and then onto my white-carpeted floor, where he vanished beneath the mini fridge. Dropping to my hands and knees, I peered beneath the humming appliance. Vlad's goldy-amber eyes stared accusingly at me from the shadows, and I could just barely glimpse the vague luminescence of my stolen silver key.

"You little thief," I muttered, and attempted to wedge my hand beneath the fridge. I caught him with practiced ease, and hauled him out into the light. The key, however, he somehow managed to drop, as it was not in his thieving mouth.

I held him up in front of my face with one hand as I settled back onto my heels, hunkering on the floor in a squat. Nose to nose, I glared at my little friend and said: "Bad Vlad. Do you want me to feed you to Mitsy?" Mitsy was the neighbor's miniature poodle, a veritable demon with a fluffy pom-pom tail. "Huh? Do you?"

He yawned, not feeling at all threatened.

I sighed, and stared at Vlad morosely. "I wish ferrets were as trainable as dogs. Then maybe you wouldn't be so much of a handful."

He cocked his head at me, as if paying attention (for once). Before I could say anything else, his head swung towards my desk, and his lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl. I don't know if any of you have ever heard a ferret's warning hiss before, so just take my word for it: it's creepy.

"Vlad?" I asked. "You okay?"

He didn't answer (after all, he's only a ferret), but he did hiss again, still staring fixedly at my desk. His little ears swiveled, straining for a sound I couldn't hear, but then they stopped as soon as they got a bead on it.

I heard it too, then. A low thunking noise was coming from the top of my desk at steady intervals.

My heart rate picked up. "Vlad," I whispered. "Please tell me you invited friends over or something." With shaking fingers, I pinched my thigh in an effort to wake myself up, in case the situation was a dream.

The noise, a hollow 'thunk-thock-thunk,' continued.

It got louder and louder, until the thunk turned into a 'thunk-creeaaak-BANG.'

Then all of the sounds... stopped.

I glanced at Vlad, who was trembling beneath my fingers. Cradling him in the crook of one arm, I stood and looked at the top of my desk.

Not much was out of place. My mugs of pencils were all in order, as was my backpack and laptop computer.

Altaïr's box, however, was open… and vacant.

Vacant.

The word echoed in my head as I numbly put Vlad back in his cage, where he immediately embedded himself beneath the layers of his hammock. Altaïr was missing. Gone. Just… gone.

Was he really… gone? But toys didn't just get up and walk away… did they?

Maybe the cupboard really _did _work… but that was impossible, wasn't it?

Wasn't it?

I sat down in my office chair heavily, staring open mouthed at the empty box. All of my figurine's weapons were in place, but Altaïr… he was just _gone_.

It's hard to describe what I was going through at that moment, as you can probably tell by the repetitiveness of the paragraphs preceding this one. At the time, little registered other than the fact that Altaïr was both A) gone, and B) my head was about to explode from the realization of that piece of information. I did not hyperventilate. I did not cry, or scream, or gibber unintelligibly. All I did was sit there, numb, thinking over and over about what Ralph—cute, sweet, obnoxious little Ralph—had told me:

_"Miss Alice, I know grownups sometimes have trouble seeing these things, but Altaïr is very, very special. If anything will come to life for us, I know it will be him!"_

Had Altaïr really… come to _life_?

The thought, so explicitly worded, jolted me from my stupor.

"I'm just tired," I said, putting a hand over my eyes. "Yeah, that's it. I'm delirious from fatigue." Another explanation struck me. "Dinah. Dammit, those blueberry muffins…" She had ordered them before I got to the café, so she very well could have put in a time release capsule of some drug or another… "Dammit, Dinah! I told you not to do that again!"

Convinced I was high and hallucinating, I banged my forehead against my desk. "Dammit, dammit dammit!"

Out of the corner of my eye, I noted that the top of my pile of dirty laundry—the one that always seems to accumulate next to me desk—was quivering slightly. Annoyed, I sat up and glared at it.

"Vlad, how did you get out of your cage?" He had the tendency to burrow into my laundry when I wasn't looking. "Stupid ferret. Vlad, how many times have I—"

A noise came from behind me. I turned. Vlad had poked his head out of his hammock at the sound of his name, and was staring at me quizzically between the bars. He had calmed somewhat, but his fur was still bristly.

I felt my hands begin to shake as I turned to stare at my laundry. A pair of my shorts—light weight cotton, patterned white and gray plaid—dislodged itself from the cloth mountain and slowly began to inch across the room.

"Holy…" I murmured, and stood up. Taking the metal trashcan next to my desk in hand, I slowly approached the inching pair of shorts. "What the heck…?"

The shorts continued to inch along the floor, making inexorable progress towards my bedroom door. I stood over them for nearly five minutes (their movement, though consistent, was slow) until they neared the threshold, when suddenly the 'running' shorts picked up speed in a mad dash for freedom.

"Not so fast," I muttered, and bolted after then. Just as they crossed the border into the outside hallway, I slammed down the trashcan, effectively trapping my escapee within a circular ring of tin.

* * *

AUTHOR'S GENIUS-NESS (if that's even a word)

Sorry I've been gone. School's been a mess; those teachers are so needy!

Did you guys like the running pun in the second-to-last paragraph? "The _running_ shorts made a mad _dash_"… Get it? _Running shorts_ are a type of pair of shorts, and they _dash_… Oh-ho-ho! I'm so clever (not)!

Interesting to note was, in the paragraph before this one, the words "running pun" are also a pun, as I am describing both an EXTENDED pun and a pun ABOUT RUNNING…

Now do you see the evidence of my punny genius? Punny. That's right, I said 'punny.' PUNNY!

Ahem.

I hope you liked this chapter. It was long. It was anticlimactic. It will probably get me murdered.

Oh well. Just know that if you kill me, you won't get any more story, and will never see mini!Altaïr. So there. HA!

On another note, have I ever put a disclaimer thing on this fic? Oh well, I guess it's time.

DISCLAIMER: Assassin's Creed is Ubisoft's. Not mine. No matter how much I dream. (sobs) Alice and co. are mine, however, so no stealing, m'kay?


	5. Chapter 04

The Assassin in the Wastebasket

Chapter 04

* * *

Despite the fact that the trashcan weighed close to a half pound, the thing motivating my shorts' escape effort wasn't perturbed in the slightest. In fact, it seemed to only want to get out more: the metal can shook and tossed as if something—or a very small some_one_—was beating a very tiny body against its smooth metal walls. In fact, on several occasions the can came very close to tipping over.

In response, I sat on it.

Bad idea. Firstly, I wasn't in reach of any weapons. Secondly, the bottom of the can was textured and hurt my ass after about thirty seconds. Ouch.

"What do I do?" I said frantically, spinning around on the trashcan in agitation. "Oh God, what do I do?" I glanced at Vlad's cage. The ferret was watching me with interest, but his fur was still spiked up along his spinal column, indicating fright. "What the hell is going on?"

Vlad the silent one, naturally, had no idea.

I sat on the trashcan, gibbering like an idiot, for almost five minutes. Eventually, the shakes and pounds stopped, and I realized that a limited amount of air had been trapped inside the can. Was the creature beneath the container suffocating?

Though I didn't really want to look—the whole incident was driving my analytically unimaginative brain nuts—I decided not to take any chances. Mustering my courage, I ripped the poster affixed to the inside of my bedroom door—which was both in reach and, ironically, an Assassin's Creed poster—off of its sticky-tack mount. Rolling it up into a firm tube, I rose and planted one of my knees decisively on the overturned trashcan.

"You got my back, Vlad?" I muttered, and slowly picked up the canister.

There was nothing under it but my shorts—or that's what my first glance revealed to me, anyway. Slowly, with all the painstaking care of a government-funded archaeologist, I slipped my tubular poster into one of the shorts' leg holes and lifted the cloth off the ground.

There's no real way to fully explain to you what I went through right then. If it were a mathematical equation, I guess my mood would have been compromised of equal parts shock, horror, and numbness.

I mean, a tiny version of my favorite video game character _was _laying face-down on my carpet, after all.

In that moment, I couldn't deny what was happening. Until then, I had attributed the weird goings-on to hallucinations, fatigue, or dreams, but the moment I saw him lying motionless on the floor, his legs and arms and body curving and conforming to the bumps in my shag carpet, I knew he was real. Alive. Solid. Something about him bent and flowed the way no mere object could; he was purely organic, not an inch synthetic. Without touching him or taking the time to notice the slight rise and fall of his tiny, breathing chest, I knew—intuitively, perhaps, but I still knew the moment I saw him lying there—that he was real.

Altaïr was real.

But tiny.

Very, very, disappointingly tiny.

It should be noted that I can't really say that I was surprised, because I knew that on some deep level I had already known what I would find beneath the wastebasket.

"Holy—" I murmured in awe and dazed amazement. I did not get to finish my sentence at that moment, however, for Altaïr decided that right then was the proper time to make another break for freedom. With preternatural quickness for someone so small, he jumped to his feet and began to run headlong towards the stairs.

I, however, had size on my side, as well as an augmented reach thanks to the poster. Using the poster as a makeshift croquet mallet, I batted Altaïr back into the trashcan (I swore I heard a tiny gasp of pain), covered the opening with the shorts, and plopped the trash can onto my desk.

"This is not happening!" I moaned, backing away from the wastebasket. The poster fell from my limp fingers and hit the floor with a hollow 'whuff'. "This is _not_ happening! There is _not _an assassin in my wastebasket! No way, no way, just—_no_!"

Unfortunately for me, I forgot that Altaïr was about as nimble as a monkey and as good a climber as one, too. The shorts stretched across the mouth of the can were pulled into the metal canister abruptly, and a set of miniature fingers pulled the rest of the minuscule assassin's body over the metal rim. He then made to leap off of the desk—a four-and-a-half-foot drop I knew would taken a huge chunk out of his health bar had he been in-game. Without thinking about it, I lunged forward, and—in an annoyingly ironic parody of the movie that Altaïr seemed to be mimicking—caught the tumbling assassin in my cupped hands.

Microscopic man saved, I knelt on the floor and stared at him. Altaïr lay sprawled across my palms like a drunken sailor; my catch had obviously knocked the wind out of him, if his labored breaths were any indication. His infinitesimal eyes burned black and glittered like onyx; his size did little to lessen his quiet ferocity, and when I saw that he was glaring up at me I nearly dropped him. He scared me, size notwithstanding, and for a moment I felt as spooked as if I had discovered that I was holding a viper in my cupped palms.

Luckily, however, he had not thought to grab any of the weapons off the desk when he made a break for the door, a fact I discovered after making sure all of his puny scabbards were empty.

"Are you okay?" I asked tentatively.

Altaïr immediately sat up. "Unhand me, giant!" he wheezed, clutching his left rack of ribs. He made to get up, so I grabbed him by the back of his hooded cloak and held him aloft in front of my face (though out of kicking distance).

"I'm not a giant," I said, oddly calm (I think I was in shock or something). "You're just tiny."

"You lie! Unhand me! Who are you? Where am I? Where is Malik?" I was fascinated to note that a tiny tongue coated with real saliva moved behind his teeth as he repeated: "Unhand me!"

"You'll just run away again!"

He quieted, for both he and I knew that I was right. "Then at least explain to me how I got here, and what manner of man you are to be so large."

I scowled. "Firstly, I'm a woman."

He blinked. "No! But your hair—it is too short!"

"Girls can have short hair."

"No they can't."

"I'm not going to argue about this. But I bought you from a guy who makes dolls, then you came to life. I'm just as clueless as you."

His tiny nose wrinkled in confusion. "Dolls? Bought? What is this nonsense? I was with Malik, planning our next coup over a carafe of wine, and fell asleep. When I awoke, I was in a dark casket whose lid I was hard-pressed to open, and when I managed to escape—" He trailed off, then resumed with: "When I opened it, I found myself atop a table fit for a giant. Then I found my way to the floor and what appeared to be a monolithic door, which you forcibly forbade me use. Now put me down!"

I realized that I was staring, open-mouthed. Swallowing, I said "No" and prepared for the worst.

"The worst" was both short-lived and unimpressive. Altaïr's mouth dropped open, snapped shut, and stayed closed. Black eyes glared, but he said nothing other than a curt "I see."

"I'm sorry," I blurted, "but it's not safe for you—outside of this room, that is."

"And why is that?"

"Because people like you don't come along every day. People would try to either kill you or use you as a lab rat."

Altaïr's nose wrinkled. "'Lab rat'? What is this 'lab rat' of which you speak?'"

I found myself floundering in confusion. How the heck was I supposed to explain the concept of a 'lab rat' to him and his ancient brain, anyway? "Um… well, it's kind of like a—"

I was spared from explaining more fully by the screaming of my cell phone. In my hand, Altaïr twisted around with sudden viciousness. "Where is that coming from?" he demanded. His eyes narrowed. "I knew it. Those are the screams of your victims."

I paused with the phone halfway to my ear. "Victims?" I repeated, stunned. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He began to beat at my fingers with tiny fists. "Giants eat humans for sustenance! Even though I always thought giants were little more than naughty children's bedtime stories, I see now that they do reflect some sort of truth." He tried to pry my fingers from his clothing with little success. "Now let me go!"

"Gladly!" I snapped, standing up. Marching over to Vlad's cage, I opened the door with my free hand, scooped up Vlad (who was hissing bloody murder) and all but threw Altaïr into the back of the cage. "Now be quiet, dammit!"

"I will not!" Altaïr bellowed (for such a little guy he had excellent lung capacity). "Let me out of here or I'll—"

I didn't wait for him to finish; instead, I slung Vlad onto my shoulder and marched out the door into the hallway, where I answered my still-screaming cell. "Hello?" I said tiredly.

"It's me. Sterling."

My heart nearly stopped. "Hi!" I said. "Omigosh, hi! What's up?"

"Um, you told me to call you. You gave me about three hundred bucks, so you should come back for your change."

I suddenly remembered throwing a wad of cash at Sterling before leaving the shop. "Oh yeah. Thanks for calling." My heart began to pound faster. Was now a good time to drop the news about little Altaïr's existence? "Um, listen Sterling, I…"

"Yeah?"

Thoughts of Sterling telling me I was either crazy or pulling a really lame joke flashed through my head. I couldn't tell him over the phone; who in their right mind would believe me without seeing the little assassin for them self? It would have to be in person. "Never mind. Can I come by tomorrow to pick it up?"

"Nope. I'm going out of town tomorrow."

My heart sank, dreams of having a "Comrade in Freak-Out-Ville" shattering like a pane of glass. "When do you get back?"

"Why? Will you miss me?"

It took me a second to realize he was teasing me… or was he? "Oh, totally," I said. "Who else will put up with my videogame obsession with a straight face? Dinah? I don't _think_ so."

Sterling chuckled. "True. But anyway, I get back next Friday."

Today was Friday. Which meant he'd be gone for six days. Dammit. "I'll see you when you get back, then."

"I'm working Saturday, so come on by anytime."

"Will do," I said. "Have a good trip."

"And _you _have a good weekend. See you."

"Yeah. sure. Bye." I hung up, and walked back into my room.

Altaïr was staring sullenly out from between the bars of his cage. "It smells in here," he proclaimed. "Release me."

I squeezed my eyes shut. On my shoulder, Vlad hissed. "You're not real," I said. "Not real. Not real. Not real. When I open my eyes, you'll be gone."

"What are you raving about?" Altaïr snapped, grabbing the bars of the cage and shaking them. "I am real! Release me!"

I sighed, turned around, shut my door, and locked it. "If I do," I said, looking at the tiny man, "will you promise not to run away?"

Altaïr hesitated. "Only if you promise not to do away with me. I have… many questions," he said.

"So do I." I sighed, smiled, and felt like crying. "So do I."

"And will you promise not to devour me?" he asked.

"Yeah. Just so long as you don't try to run away."

Altaïr stared at me, but the glare was gone from his eyes. "I can see in your face that you do not wish upon me ill."

I nodded.

He seemed convinced. "Very well, then. Let me out, and we will discuss our… circumstances." He stepped back from the cage door, which I unlatched and let fall open. "Do you know how I may return home?" Altaïr asked, using the bars of the wire cage as a ladder to get down to the floor.

"No, I don't," I said. "In fact, I don't really know how you got here in the first place." I dropped to my knees and placed my hand—palm up—on the floor. "It's hard to look at you down there," I said. "Get on, and let me put you on the desk."

Altaïr looked first at my hand, then at my face. "And you will not crush me in your fist at first opportunity?"

"I won't."

"Very well." He reached out a hand and placed it on the tip of my index finger, then frowned.

"What is it?" I asked.

"He reached out a hand and placed it on the tip of my index finger, then frowned.

"What is it?" I asked.

"You're warm," he said.

"So?"

"Giants are made of stone. You are wrought of flesh." He shot me a puzzled glance. "Earlier you said you were not a giant, and this is true, for you are of human body. Then you said I was a doll, purchased by yourself and brought to life by unknown means. Is that true, also?"

"Yeah."

"But I have memories, a past. I'm not a doll. How could this be?"

"I don't know," I said, watching as Altaïr climbed and knelt on my palm in contemplative silence. As I rose to my feet and he leapt from my hand to the desk, I said: "Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. Nothing so… magical."

"Magic," said Altaïr, and I saw the wheels begin to turn in his head. "Maybe that's not so far from the truth."

And so began our uneasy alliance, a binding of the unknown, as well as the fear thereof.

It would last for ten days.

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE

So sorry for the wait—I've been sick as a dog. Then school started. Then I got abducted by aliens, and went to a family reunion with Big Foot and the Tooth Fairy. Two of those things are true. The rest are fabricated. OH, THE MYSTERY! Will you EVER figure it out??

Anyway, now it's time for Little!Altaïr antics! Oh, the fun! See you next time!


End file.
